Her mind processed the knowledge he was a gentleman whom it would ordinarily never be possible for her to meet. Mr. Kirkwood offered an elegant bow that Jacinda met with a curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Turnbow, to make your acquaintance.” He took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips, lingering longer than necessary. “Would you care to dance?”
The duke stepped forward, scowling. “I am afraid you are too late. I have already claimed this dance with Miss Turnbow.” He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like and every bloody other one.
Mr. Kirkwood grinned, his good humor unaffected. “Perhaps the next dance, then.”
Whitley’s gray gaze narrowed to slits behind his mask, his jaw going rigid. “Haven’t you an unsuspecting patron in need of fleecing somewhere?”
The other man’s good humor remained unaffected by the duke’s insult. Despite Whitley’s irritation, the two shared an easy air that suggested a close friendship. Mr. Kirkwood’s grin deepened, the disparity between his boyish charm and his dark apparel more notable than ever.
“As a wise man recently said to me, if only everyone else thought you as droll as you find yourself, friend.” His grin faded when his gaze settled upon someone in the crush of dancers. “What the devil is she doing here?”
“She?” Whitley’s expression turned wolfish. “Is something amiss, Duncan?”
Mr. Kirkwood’s countenance darkened, his eyes fixed upon the unknown female that so confounded him. “Nothing I cannot manage, Cris.” He bowed. “Enjoy the evening, lovebirds.”
With that, he stalked off, the milling guests parting for him as if a giant, invisible hand preceded him. What an odd, interesting fellow. Jacinda watched him for a moment before turning to the duke. “You are friends with Mr. Kirkwood?”
“I was friends with him until he held your hand far longer than necessary,” he growled.
Jacinda suppressed a smile at the possessive note in Whitley’s voice, for she knew she could never truly lay claim to him regardless of how much part of her wished it. “For tonight, I am yours,” she said softly.
Even if it was all they had.
His eyes blazed into hers, glittering with sensual promise. “If I had known how greatly it would please me to see you wearing a beautiful gown, I would have directed Madame Ormonde to make you two dozen more than the handful I chose. Pink suits you, my dear.”
She felt removed from herself in the dress, almost as if she were someone else. How freeing it was to pretend, to live in the moment rather than worry about tomorrow and all the pain and uncertainty it would bring. But then his words settled in her mind, and her earlier puzzlement at the modiste possessing a small cache of gowns that seemed suited to Jacinda’s figure made sense.
“Do you mean to tell me the gowns I saw today were commissioned for me by you?” she demanded.
“You are too beautiful to hide yourself in colorless sacks,” was his mild response as he snagged two glasses from a passing servant who bore a tray of beverages. He presented her with one and kept the other for himself. “Drink. It will do wonders to ease the frown wrinkling your brow.”
She fixed him with a stern look, the one she usually reserved for his wayward sisters. “When?”
“Preferably now,” he muttered before taking a sip from his own glass and wincing. “Bracing stuff. I do wonder what concoction Duncan has ordered for this evening’s festivities. A warning, before you begin. Moderation is required in all things at The Duke’s Bastard.”
Good heavens, even the name of this dubious establishment was sinful. But Jacinda was not going to allow him to distract her so easily. “I meant to ask when you commissioned the gowns for me, not when should I drink this dubious brew.”
As she said the last, she gave her glass a discreet sniff. Ratafia, it was decidedly not. He considered her with his cool stare, and she wished she could see his entire face without the hindrance of his half mask.
“Yesterday. Fortunately, Madame Ormonde possessed some dresses made for a lady who was not able to afford them after her wastrel husband lost everything in a game of hazard.” He paused. “Her form was propitiously similar to yours, it would appear. But I will not deny that whilst I was there, I requested she create some more suitable gowns for you. Seeing you in brown grows hideously tiresome.”
“You cannot buy me gowns, Your Grace,” she hissed, reverting to his title as a reminder to herself as much as it was to him that this enchanted evening was all they had.
His jaw flexed. “It pleases me to do so.”
“It is wrong,” she argued, feeling she must. She could not afford to allow herself to think what was between them was anything more than fleeting. For heaven’s sake, even without the deception she was forced to perpetrate against him, she had too much pride to become his mistress. What she had given of herself, she gave freely.
“I want to take care of you,” he said softly, the admission sounding torn from him. “Will you not let me in this small capacity? Is it truly so hateful to accept something from me?”
She stared at him, realization hitting her with the force of a blow. No, of course it was not hateful to accept his gifts. She wore a gown that had been paid for with his coin at that very moment. But the reason she could not allow him to buy her gowns was not her pride alone. Rather, it was far more troubling.
She had fallen in love with him.
There, in the midst of the den of iniquity to which he had brought her, surrounded by masked lords and ladies of the night, she knew without a doubt her heart belonged to the Duke of Whitley. To the Duke of Depravity. To Crispin. Whoever and whatever he was, she was his. The thought of leaving him left her with a physical ache in her chest and a swirl of nausea in her stomach.
It was why she could not accept more than this gown and this final night. As it was, she considered the gown a loan. She would leave it in her chamber when the time came for her to depart Whitley House in less than a fortnight.
“Damnation.”
His gritted epithet woke her from the spell that had seemed to settle upon her, and it occurred to her she stood gawping at him, no rejoinder at the ready. What could she say? She was afraid if she attempted to use her tongue, it would reveal her every secret.
I love you.
I am betraying you.
Please forgive me.
“I do not wish to argue with you, Jacinda.” His lips compressed into a firm line that she longed to coax away with a kiss. “Come. Let us find a place where we can have some privacy. The dancing can bloody well wait.”
Clenching the stem of her glass, she allowed him to guide her away from the ballroom, mind whirling with the implications of the emotions that could no longer be contained. How could she bear to remain at Whitley House and perpetuate her deceptions?
Chapter Sixteen
He had well and truly muddled his attempt at wooing her. In recriminating silence, Crispin led Jacinda to the private chamber on the second floor that Duncan had reserved for his use, sliding the lock home once they were on the other side lest anyone attempt to intrude. The chamber was familiar to him, with dark walls and red silk drapery, dominated by a large bed and a wall outfitted with one-way viewing portals to the chamber adjacent should one be so inclined.
He had often been inclined in the past, but the prurient view beyond the chamber did not call to him just now. All he cared about was Jacinda. She had been so damned silent and pale in the ballroom he had feared she would flee into the night.
He turned to find her standing a few paces from him, sipping from her glass. She was so bloody beautiful in her ethereal rose dress that it robbed him of breath each time he truly drank his fill. The short, capped sleeves had been fashioned into silken petals of flowers, leaving her creamy upper arms bare above her buff gloves. Her bosom was high and full and mouthwatering, her lean waist perfectly accentuated by the gown’s fitting. A gown that had been commissioned solely for her could not have been more perfect, and he could not stop sta
ring.
But he had not brought her here to the privacy of this chamber to ogle her, he reminded himself. He had brought her here because she was angry with him, and he could not bear to be the cause of her displeasure.
“If you wish it, I will cancel the gowns,” he said into the silence.
“It is not the gowns but the expectation.” Her tone was quiet.
Her words were not. He needed her to understand he was not attempting to buy her favors. He wanted to woo and win her, not to force her into anything she did not want. His need of her was so strong and so pathetic, he would be willing to accept anything she gave him, any part of her, however small.
“I have no expectations. The gowns are a gift, much like the flowers you crushed into my chest and left upon the floor of my study yesterday.” He could not quite expunge the bitterness from his words. “All I want is to make you happy, Jacinda, however I may, and in whatever manner you will allow.”
Because she made him happy. She filled the hollowness inside him. Chased the darkness with her light. She was as compulsory to him as air.
“Becoming your mistress would not make me happy, Crispin.” Sadness underscored her words, and he felt the weight of the emotion sink into his marrow. “I would be miserable.”
He understood her pride would not allow it, and he accepted that. What he could not accept was not having her. One day, one night—this bloody borrowed time she allowed him, was not enough, damn it. In the short time since she had come into his life, she had wrought so much change. She had helped to free him from the dark depths to which he had sunk in the wake of Morgan’s death.
The truth of it—of how much he required her—choked him. He swallowed down the knot rising in his throat, and went to her, staring down into her eyes, willing her to see it for herself. “I do not need a mistress. I need you.”
Curse it, he had never said such a thing to a woman before. Had never before been or felt so bloody vulnerable.
Her eyes widened, molten honey glittering in the warm depths. Her lips parted. “You already have me.”
Restlessness surged inside him, mingling with a churning brew of too many other emotions to count. He had spent years of his life at war, hardening himself to all sentiment. He had killed without compunction, had faced enemy fire without fear. And yet, this one petite woman who had swept into his study one ordinary morning, had the power to make him feel. So much power in her small, fine-boned hands, in her lush pink lips, in her every word and deed.
It was fucking terrifying.
Too terrifying to continue contemplating. Instead, he plucked the glass from her fingers, depositing it on a table before returning to her. The time for talking was done. Tenderly, he cupped her face, lowering his mouth to hers. She opened for him with a sigh, clutching his shoulders. Her breasts, full and high in her glorious gown, pressed into his chest.
They kissed as if it was their last, as though they had been starved for and deprived of each other longer than a mere day. Lips and teeth and tongues collided. What remained of his control snapped, and she was every bit as desperate as he was. Their hands tore at each other’s clothes. Buttons and fastenings opened. Knots came undone. Kisses and caresses punctuated each revealed swath of skin.
Naked at last, they came together atop the bed. She urged him onto his back, tearing her mouth from his to kiss down his neck, to his chest. His already rigid cock went even harder as she kissed down the taut plane of his abdomen. In his fervor to get her nude, he had neglected to take down her hair. As she kissed to the jut of his hipbone, finding his puckered scars and placed reverent kisses upon them as well, he plucked every pin he could find until her tresses rained down in glorious, silken fire.
Lower still she went, settling between his thighs, looking up at him shyly. “Tell me what will please you.”
Good, sweet Lord. He should not ask it of her, and yet he could not resist. “Touch me here.” He guided her hand to his ballocks.
She palmed him in a feather-light caress. “Like this?”
“Harder.” As one, their hands moved. He showed her how he liked to be touched. Her movements grew more confident. Desire licked down his spine. “God, yes, love. Now take me into your mouth.”
Her lips parted without hesitation, and she did as he instructed. The warm wetness of her mouth engulfed him, and he lost the ability to think. He wrapped a hand in the lush skeins of her locks, the breath hissing from him when she flicked her tongue over his crown. The sight of his engorged prick between her petal-pink lips was enough to undo him. “I am going to spend in your mouth if you do not stop,” he cautioned through gritted teeth.
The only acknowledgment she made of his warning was a deep, rumbling purr of feminine satisfaction that he felt all the way to the base of his cock. A groan tore from him. He was helpless beneath her, her willing slave. His hips pumped, seeking more, wanting release. And she obliged him, prolonging her sensual torture until he could hold back no more. He lost himself, his ballocks tightening in a violent release down her throat.
Heart thudding, he hauled her over his body, arms clamping around her to hold her to him. He buried his face in the sweetly-scented hair at her crown, pressed a kiss there, and wished he could keep her there forever, in the moment, naked and his alone.
She kissed his chest directly above his heart. “I am in love with you, Crispin.”
Bloody hell. No one had ever said those words to him before. And far from igniting a panicked sense of dread in him as he might have supposed they would, they had the opposite effect. A pervasive sense of warmth blossomed in his chest and possessiveness roared through him with such fury he had to grind his teeth.
As one, he rolled them so that he was astride her. He was already hard for her again. He took her mouth in a long and steady kiss as he fitted his cock to her slick cove, and when he slid inside, he knew he was home.
*
She woke to chill-night air licking at her bare skin and large, hot hands on her hips. She had not moved from the sated sprawl in which she had fallen asleep on her stomach, legs outstretched, head cradled by her pillow. The hands caressed her, thumbs drawing slow, steady circles of seduction on her skin. She gave a low moan of appreciation and undulated her hips, seeking Crispin. His reverent touch roused her from sleep. In the blissful darkness, she did not have to worry about tomorrow and what it would bring.
Though she had not meant to confess her feelings for him, she was glad she had. Even if they could never have anything more than these stolen moments together, she wanted him to know how strong and true her feelings for him were. This, along with her body, was all she could give.
“My sweet, Cin.” The rasp of his whiskers as he rubbed his cheek over her bottom made a fresh surge of wetness pool between her legs. He kissed first one cheek of her bottom and then the other, humming his pleasure as he went along. The kisses moved to the cleft at the top of her backside, traveling up her spine. He spoke in between each well-placed press of his beautiful mouth. “You.” Kiss. “Are.” Kiss. “Mine.”
Part of her knew the gravity of the folly she had committed in falling in love with him. In responding to his knowing touch and wicked lips. In wanting him with such a rampant, desperate ferocity that she ached and throbbed and even now let out a low moan, arching her back so as his lips reached her shoulder, her bottom pressed against his long, hard length.
Every intimacy she permitted dragged her deeper beneath his spell and farther from the reason she had come to Whitley House. She longed for this man. She had no defenses against him. Not even her sense of honor or her desperate loyalty to her father, could shake the way she felt for him.
She was wicked, and this was wrong. But wrong had never felt more right.
He licked her shoulder blade, then caught her skin in his teeth and gave her a nip that was more pleasurable than painful. A sigh escaped her.
“I never want to leave this bed.”
Ah, if only they could remain thus forever. Just the two
of them, free of the shackles of their pasts and presents and futures. If only she could confess all to him, reveal her duplicity and the reason for it. Ask him for his forgiveness, help him to clear his name and emerge unscathed from the cloud of suspicion haunting him. Find a way to save herself and Father from ruin.
He kissed a path to her nape. “Or rather,” he growled against her skin, “I never want you to leave my bed, for that is where you belong.”
Nor did she, but such thoughts inevitably led her back to the utter hopelessness of her situation. But she had determined not to allow the outside world to intrude upon them for the remainder of this blissful night, and it was not yet dawn. She moved her bottom instinctively against his rigid cock.
“Did you mean what you said?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and desire. The thick length of his arousal slid against her from behind.
She bit her lip to keep from speaking. Raw need settled in her core as a pulsing ache. She wanted him again. But still, she would not admit her feelings for him again or even think it, for she could not bear to fall any deeper in love with him than she already had. If he ever found out how deeply she had betrayed him, he would never forgive her.
Nay, all that belonged to them—all they could have—was this final, stolen night of passion. It would have to be enough to warm her for the many long, cold years ahead of her. Years without him.
The notion left a hollow, desperate sensation inside her breast.
“I want to be inside you now, love, and I know you want it, too. But I will not give you what you want until you tell me.”
“Please,” she begged, squirming against him, wanting him inside her, wanting to tell him she loved him again and yet too desperately fearful to admit it.
He kissed her ear. “Are you going to say it or do I need to punish you?”
His low voice made desire trill down her spine. But she could not capitulate. Already, she was drowning in her love and need for him, in her desperation to keep him. She could never have him in the way she wished, and one day she would lose him forever.
Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1) Page 21